Why I Couldn't Care Less About Having Kids

From time to time, I try to imagine my life with children. Bouncing baby boys, burping baby girls created in the spitting image of me and the one I love.

But the truth is, I always preferred My Little Ponies and kitty cats over baby dolls. When I was 6 years old, I tossed my sister's dollies across the room, laughing as they smashed against the wall, because I was "making them fly."

As pre-teens, my younger sister and I started our own business, Summer Breeze Babysitting Service. While she played with the neighborhood kids, I stuffed my face, watched The Little Mermaid, and napped on the couch. We split the profits 50/50. It was a sweet deal. On the rare occasion I had to go at it alone, I was a deer in the headlights. A screaming baby was my Kryptonite.

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Summers in high school, I was a Waffle House waitress. On more than one occasion, I recall kicking empty hash brown boxes in the back room, furiously puffing on cigarettes, amped up like the Incredible Hulk, when a child's high pitched screech never ended.

One Mother's Day, I made my mom cry because, as we sat in a circle slurping egg drop soup at our favorite Chinese food restaurant, I declared, "I'm never having children!" A bit insensitive, I admit.

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In the years that followed, I always seemed to get the Inquisition, mostly from men, for not living to breed. How dare I? My sister always wanted children. I never did. Some things you just know early on. I think it's easier to trust your gut when you're too young to suppress your instincts. And while I've lived my whole life with an open mind, my feelings have never changed, not even a little bit, not even for an instant.

Most of my 20s were spent acting flippant toward little ones, showing no signs of mercy. Don't spit up on me. Stop drooling on me. Get away from me. Don't touch that.No.

It wasn't until I became an aunt that my heart melted a drop or two. Those big beautiful eyes resembling mine, staring back, helpless, full of wonderment and love really tugged at me. But, as soon as discord struck, I was out the door.

In my early 30s, I worked with children with autism for my Master of Social Work degree. I was assigned to work one-on-one with a 7-year-old girl who brought the violence and pain. Like a thug out of a Martin Scorsese flick, she held a pair of scissors up to my neck then attacked me with a tambourine. She'd ask for hugs then head-butt me. I terminated our relationship after she picked up a bean bag, tossed it back and forth, looked me square in the eyes and hissed, "Finally, I get to bash you now."

Between processing transference and countertransference issues with lil' Joe Pesci and years attending Adult Children of Alcoholics meetings where I learned if it's not one thing it's your mother, I came to realize it's not the children that I hate. My feelings were merely a symptom of growing up too soon.

It was hard to enjoy being a child since my early years were spent taking care of my mother, who could be a little unruly at times, and my little sister, who needed guidance. By the time I graduated from high school, I had essentially already taken care of two kids. I was ready to do my own thing. Being around children seemed to threaten my autonomy. They represented a profound loss.

Now, I don't think much about children at all. They remind me of my relationship with licorice. When I was younger, I used to make a really big deal about how much I disliked the foul candy. If I happened to accidentally pop a black jelly bean in my mouth, I'd make a face of disgust, maybe stick out my tongue, spit and gesticulate wildly. I made sure everyone around me knew I was uncomfortable. I made sure they could feel my extreme displeasure.

These days, if someone offers me a licorice treat, I politely decline without causing a fuss. If that person insists, waving that waxy braided stick in my face, I'll excuse myself, find a wine bar, sip on some Le Petit Cochon Rosé, and stay out as late as I want because I don't have a child at home waiting for me. When my friends with twins complain about how terrible life has become, I'll hop a plane and travel the world for a bit because I can.

The way I see it, I get a second crack at being a kid. I'm spending my adulthood living out my childhood dreams.